


How The Devil So Adored You

by halcyonwhispers



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Dismemberment, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, First Time, Gore, Incest, Kidnapping, Love at First Sight, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Obsessive Behavior, Physical Abuse, Psycho!Striders AU, Psychological Trauma, Psychostiders, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Stalking, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Underage - Freeform, enslavement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-07-21 16:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7394101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyonwhispers/pseuds/halcyonwhispers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>BREAKING NEWS: TEEN FLEES PSYCHOPATHS</p><p>After four years imprisonment, John Egbert, 17, has escaped his serial killer kidnappers. Taken from his bed April 13, 2012, Egbert has been at the mercy of two brothers, Dirk and Dave Strider, now ages 34 and 17, in a deserted hotel on the outskirts of a small Texas town. </p><p>As of now Egbert stands as the lone survivor of the mass murders. However, the young man’s mental health is put into question on how useful he will be to the prosecution as several sources suggest Stockholm Syndrome is at hand. </p><p>See below for pictures of Egbert and Striders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It only hurts when you touch me.

_‘Wait. Are you telling me that the reason why this case, the Ebony Killings, have gotten this famous is the result of how good looking the Strider brothers are?’_ the interviewer asked, eyes widening dramatically. 

You hold your knees closer to your body, staring at the TV screen, soaking in as much as you can before your Dad comes out of the shower.

The interview, Matt Lauder, leans forward in his chair. The person he’s asking looks solemn.

 _‘What typically captivates the public during investigations are the brutality of the murders and the killers themselves. The Strider brothers,’_ your eyelids drop down as a picture of them fills the screen, _‘manage_ _to accomplish both of this. Ted Bundy’s case was similar. All aspects of this match up to what the world saw back in the 70s.’_ The former FBI agent continues to speak, informing the millions wanting to learn about what happened.

 _‘The Striders, like many serial killers out there, have a very specific type. Slim built, colored eyes, and of course, the black hair. The victims found deceased at the location were later examined and those who didn’t already have naturally black hair, were discovered to have had their hair dyed black to fit the look the Striders sought out.’_ This ex-FBI guy is old, worn, and had probably nothing better to do than inform people watching _The Today Show_ about the number one trending topic on Twitter right now.

_‘It wasn’t just a specific ethnic group or gender that the Striders sought out. The confirmed victims were men, women, some were even queer-gendered. Black, white, Latino… Korean-American in the case of the survivor, the Striders didn’t care about these things as long the person fit their other ideals.’_

Your hands brush through your hair self-consciously, fingers getting caught in a knot. Tugging on it doesn’t help and suddenly, your mind disconnects the knowledge that it’s _your_ hand in your hair, replacing it with a larger, stronger one.

Your hand snaps away from your head. There’s that sharp taste of bile at the back of your throat again, ever present and just waiting for you to be reminded of it.

Pushing your face into your legs, you wish you could just shave it off. Shave all of it off and forget the days that were spent with him wrenching at your dark hair. You want to dye it something completely different to help forget.

But not blonde. No. Not blonde.

_‘There’s still a lot being held back from the media, the trial may be compromised to some degree if the police and FBI aren’t careful.’_

Matt Lauder nods lugubriously. _‘We have time for one more question, Mr. Spencer. From everything our sources have gathered, do you think that the young man involved will testify, and if it will help put away these men? After all, there’s word of the young man making an appearance at the trail in Texas coming up.’_

Your ears ring, blurring out the low volume of the TV. You have to turn off the TV. Dad will be out, the 15 minutes are practically over.

Turn off the TV.

The controller is suddenly in your hand as you lock eyes with the old, tired man. Your brain is slow on hearing still, and it isn’t until after you see his mouth form blubbering words does your hearing turn up the sound.

_“…sole survivor of these murders. It’s going to be up to the lawyers if they deem his mental health rational enough to be put up in the stand.”_

A picture finds its way onto the TV, of a boy or man… or somewhere in between. There’s a blanket thrown carelessly over his scruffy T-shirt.

It was taken when you was first escorted to the hospital, the first trip of many to come. The paparazzi would later move in like roaches outside the place, but one of them was there on the first day. A journalist with a third eye, who snapped a picture just before everything would explode. Wondering how word came to that person’s ears, you can almost hear the newspaper editor spilling the sounds as the journalist ran out the door.

(therewasaboy.thatoldrundownhotelmilesoutsideoftown,yesthatone,heldthereforgodknowshowlong.getagoddamnquestioninbeforethosevulturesfromDallaspullthestoryfromus)

Now the world knew that picture as the first evidence of the torture.

Dirty, skeletal, with finger-printed bruises on your throat, someone had called your name. You turned because it had been years since the last time you heard it come from someone who wasn’t _them_.

That was the image on the screen; a broken kid with blood smeared on his hands, a bruise blooming on his cheek, his black hair slicked to his forehead with sweat, and blue eyes reflecting the morning sky – endless.

_“Either way, John Egbert’s testimony will be of the greatest importance-”_

The screen turns black and your glance at your hand to find a finger on the power button. The remote control is tossed away from you, and you close your eyes, shutting out your image from the TV.

Dad told you not to watch the TV. All that’s on the news is the killings. Everything on TV is about them. Everything online is about them, about you, about the stupid Ebony Killings.

You can’t go outside without seeing the lineup of varies TV crews camping out your lawn. Most of them left after the fourth month, and now there’s a new wave of ‘em sticking out the wait as the trials move on. The green grass where you used to play on is now reduced to trampled dirt.

You remember asking Dad, after finally being able to look at him without sobbing your eyes out, “Why did you stay at that house?” It had been almost four years by the time Dad stormed into the hospital in that tiny Texas town.

“I knew you would come back, and well son, when you did, I thought this would be the first place you’d look.”

Tears are already dropping from your eyes, and your clutch your forehead, the newly hollow place in your chest weeping for someone, for him, to cling too.

You miss him.

He coddled you too much, so maybe it’s only natural it’s him that you’re craving for. He was a safety blanket you could cling too after a beating or when his brother made you feel no better than the dismembered body parts in the Red Room. But he tried…tried to help in little ways. A blanket in cold winter nights, or day without having to get on your knees and crawl around like the dog they made you think you were.

You never realized until you left…that this void existed in you. He was the one who kept it filled and kept you thinking that this wasn’t so bad, only if he was there. If he was, you could find a way to keep breathing.

You’re a blubbering mess now. You sniffle and swipe the back of your hand across your nose.

You need to pack for tomorrow. You need to try to hold it together for this. It’s been a couple months since everything. You have to see _them_ again. Him. Him. Him.

D-

“John?” Your eyes snap up to see Dad standing at the doorway, a brush in his hand, and in a dark gray robe. “John!” His voice is far away and his face is fading in and out of your eyesight.

There’s a loud panting in the room, combined with shrill sobbing, and you hug your knees at once, whimpering as you realize that it’s all you.

Dad races towards you and as soon as he’s within arm length, you find yourself flinching at his outstretched hand. In the back of your mind, you know that out of all the people in the world, Dad isn’t going to hurt you, but you can still feel Bro’s hands.

As if he understands what’s going through your mind, Dad’s expression loses some of the panic and softens. He gently grabs your elbows and quietly urges you to raise them over your head. “In through your nose, out through your mouth… Yes, there you go son. Breathe, breathe… Good, just focus on that.”

The hours it takes you to calm down in your brain speeds up to several minutes in real time and the next thing you know, Dad rubs your back as you gasp into his shoulder.

“John…” You know he’s going to say something. Something about being “mentally stable” enough to travel away from the safely of Seattle to hellish Texas. But… But…

“I want to go.” The words hang off your mouth and Dad’s hand stills for a second, so minor a moment that it’s possible your brain scratched, like it usually does.

You keep your eyes closed, taking deep breaths of your Dad’s body soap. “Son… The only thing I ever wanted was, is, to keep you safe, but also I want to trust in your decisions…” Your eyes open and the only thing you can find is the posh feel of the robe. His grip tightens on you. “I don’t want you taken from me again.” _But don’t willingly go either._

The last part goes unsaid, and the raw memory of one psychologist comes whispering in with those fucked words that left you throwing up right on the her shiny black shoes.

_Stockholm syndrome, feelings of trust or affection felt in certain cases of kidnapping or hostage-taking by a victim towards a captor._

You jerk against your Dad, pulling away and standing up.

“I- I have too Dad! I need- This is the only way I can finish-” you stumble over the words before biting on your tongue and start to count backwards in your head. You push the palms of your hands under your glasses, into your eyes, to clear you head. You get to 87 when you pull your hands away.

“The doctor said I was ok. I _know_ I can do this,” hands wave around as you speak. You desperately try to find a hint of disbelief in your Dad’s eyes, in a fatherly face that looks closer to 50 than his actual 43 years. You want him to doubt you. No, you expect it.

After all, it’s just you.

Instead, Dad slowly nods. “You’re right… I trust you, son.” He stands up just as slowly, an old body filled with aching bones. He pauses where he is and looks at you with so much compassion, you find yourself blinking away tears, because this can’t be real.

You expect to wake up and find yourself laying on that dirty mattress in the corner. You expect the old hotel room to close in on you when you awake. You expect to feels the almost-nonexistent footsteps leading to your door, the only ones that have you relax a little. You could never feel Bro’s dreadful presence coming up on you, so it had to be someone else.

You could ask for a walk on the roof, if you beg sweetly enough and hold the leather leash in between your teeth, because he likes that. He thinks it cute or some kinky shit, but that’s fine. He’ll cave in for you because he l o v e s y o u-

L o v-

Lo-

L-

“John?” Your name is cold in the heat-filled thought. Dad still stands in the same spot as a minute (a second? a hour?) ago. His face tells you he wants to believe you. This has to be real, at least for this Dad’s sake, it has to be.

“Yeah Dad, please just trust me.”

You’re back in his arms before you know it, and he’s so quiet that his next words almost escape you. “I want to.”

* * *

 

During the last two trials, Dirk Strider pleaded not guilty on all charges on grounds of insanity, and now with this third one (hopefully the last), everyone is sure that the jury will decide the sentence.

Dad didn’t allow you to attend the first two trials, as it might’ve been too soon to face Bro. Yet now, there’s a better sense of confidence alongside several psychologist notes to ensure everyone you are, in fact, not as sympathetic as they thought you might be.

As you and Dad are being catered off to the courthouse, you know that Bro would never say he’s not guilty.

As little as you understood, understand, him, you’re certain that Bro would almost relish the idea of telling the world what he’s done. He wouldn’t show it (because it’s fucking Bro Strider and he’d never care enough to show emotion) but you know he’d _like_ it.

His defense attorney must’ve worked hard at it to get him to agree. Or maybe… You’re shivering as the comprehension hits you. Or maybe he just wanted to see how this way would play out.

Dad glances your way and you move your eyes to meet his. He looks tried and the usually vibrant dark gray of his eyes are dulled out with stress. Suddenly, he catches you looking and he’s smiling, shifting his hand to have it sit palm up in the tiny bit of space between your bodies.

You stare at it blankly for a moment, no idea of why he moved it like that. He could be planning something… A prank?

The word prank hasn’t been on your mind since you were 12.

You’re still staring when his finger twitches a little and all at once, you understand. He wants to hold your hand. Biting your lip, you nervously slip your hand in his, dumb at how every instinct inside of you screams not to be touched. However, you’ve long mastered to pretend the discomfort isn’t there.

The look he gives you makes how you’re feeling even worse. He looks so damn happy and relieved, his hand giving yours a reassuring squeeze.

For God’s sake, it’s _Dad_. The over-protective man who lost his corporate job because he spent all the time and energy he had on looking for you for four years. He’s not going to going to slam you against the floor, his hand-

The last thought almost makes your heave as the driver comes up to the courthouse.

“Alright, just like we talked about, no one say anything to the press. Those bloodsuckers will take a peep you say and turn it into a national headliner,” your lawyer says in a hurry as the loud shouting is coming closer. Something Pyrope. You should feel bad about not quite knowing her name as she’s been with you since the first week, but you haven’t been quite there the first week, so it’s justified.

You vaguely remember her harden expression relax after she met you, saying something about her youngest daughter being the same age as you. The one who’s just as blind as she is.

Pyrope continues about holding onto her. She turns in your direction with a lively grin, all teeth, and declares, “No one’s touching either one of you,” before the door is yanked open by a security guard and all hell is unleashed.

True to her word, you’re sandwiched between Pyrope and your Dad. There’s a guard at both ends of the line, probably for the best. The press is merciless with their shoving and screaming, pushing recording devices through the gaps between your Dad’s arms. He tosses his dress jacket over your head.

Under the dark blue jacket, you can hear it’s not only the media out here today.

“Strider for the death penalty!”

“It’s the fault of societal regulations!”

“You’ll let the white man walk away from justice!”

“They were kids! They _slaughtered_ our children!”

“It shouldn’t be up to Big Brother who lives and dies! God is great! He will give what He has taken!”

From what you can see of the floor, you focus on the _tap tap tap_ of Pyrope’s walking stick hitting the pavement, letting that be your reliever.

The screaming melts together as you finally race up the steps and cross into the building. The guard leads the three of you through the maze of quietly swarming people into a huge, bright room. Weaving through the mass of people is no easier than it was outside, and yet your heart is pounding twice as much.

Even when you find your seats, the first bench behind the prosecution, your heart thunders on. You hear Pyrope distantly tell Dad about Samuel Nitram, the man who’s taken charge in the Ebony case for the State.

Dad glances up the security guard and smiles tiredly to the man, and a closer look tells you he can’t be any older than 21. Probably fresh out of the academy. He’s nervous as hell by the amount of sweat on his brow, dark blue eyes flitting left and right behind rectangular glasses. He nods grimly before disappearing back into the web of people.

You take in the surroundings, twisting your hands together in silent dread. Time in the room is warped, and you can’t tell if you’ve been there 10 minutes or 10 hours.

Your sense of time vanished the first few days trapped in your room. The hotel room, that is. Bro never care to tell you the time of day, never let you outside much to tell, and only allowed the small window in the bedroom to be your clock depending on the color of the sky when you were alone.

Dave was your time-keeper.

 _“Rise and shine Egbert, it’s 12:3o. Brought us lunch. Hope you like McDonald’s greasy burgers, drenched in some teenager’s angst sweat no doubt,”_ he’d say, waking you up after a partially hard night with Bro. You stayed seated where you were because you were too humiliated to move out the small puddle of blood and come around your ass.

Then that other time where he found out about the tally marked engraved on the floor under your mattress, craved into the wooden floor by your nails. _“Keep the mattress over it. If Bro sees that…he’s not going to be happy.”_ Dave took your face in his hands, and didn’t let you go even after you started to tremble with such force he appeared like he was shivering too.

 _“Ask me and I’ll tell you, you don’t have to do that to keep track of the days.”_ It was only after that did he release you. _“After a while here, you’ll stop caring anyways, ‘cause there’ll be no point.”_

You did stop caring about it, maybe because in a sense, Dave would always be there for you to lean on regarding time. He was safe. You sought that safety out when you got pasted his…obsession for you. It was that or nothing but Bro’s knife-like kisses and void heart.

When you first got home, the newspapers described Bro as tall, blonde, and handsome. The fucking New York Times, NBC, CBS, CNN…the description was all moderately the same, with each source calling a guiltless murderer handsome. Like he was a contestant on the Bachelor. Is that just a human thing then- to take in an appearance, despite already knowing the story behind it, and judge on that?

There’s a sudden louder mutter of voices that brings your eyes up from your hands. Dad tenses besides you, whispering to Pyrope in a low voice. You can’t hear the words, but you don’t need too, you’re already looking at him.

He walks in like a god.

That is the first and only thought that breezes through your mind, soft and biting. It wraps around your being and no amount of psychologists or psychiatrists could never keep you from thinking for four years, he was your god.

He controlled Dave. Dave feed you, clothed you, cleaned you. If Bro hadn’t allowed that, you would’ve been dead that first week. You stare at him, unblinking because, holy shit, he’s really in the same room as you.

Bro strides into the courtroom, elegantly, predatorily, despite his ankles and wrists in shackles, dressed in that godawful orange jumpsuit that somehow looks like it was tailored for him, head held up like everyone else in the room just _happened_ to be there. Blonde hair, always long and windswept, is cut short. Shorter than you’ve ever seen on him, actually. It’s trimmed close to his scalp, standard in Texan prisons.

That’s when you notice it. His eyes. They took his shades. They took those stupid as fuck anime shades away from him. How did they do that? Did Bro fight back? Did someone die?

You’ve never seen him without his sunglasses, and while you always thought without them, Bro would appear more valuable, he only continues on looking untouchable. It emphases the odd amber color of his eyes, the deep sun-kissed tone of his skin… Other than his hair, he looks the same, and there’s some unfairness in that. It doesn’t look like he lost a wink of sleep since you escaped.

It makes you want to scream and point at your eyes, the bruise-like circles around them, shove the countless journals you’ve filled out about those four years in hell at him, show him Dave’s mugshot, because everything’s _his_ fault. His _fucking_ fault. Not your’s, because killing and raping and torture are all wrong. The doctors told him so, and while those things happen every day somewhere, it’s still bad. It was Bro’s fault. He was the one…who was wrong.

You watch his eyes lazily wonder around the room, his face unrevealing in the commotion happening around him. His guards lead him to an empty seat next to his state attorney. The older man (Graham H. Makara, Pyrope hisses to your dad) leans over, whispering and plotting.

The last time you saw him, (actually _saw_ him) he was lying unconscious, cuffed to the pipes in the broken wall, left side of his head knotted up with blood after you hit him.

Your eyes are still glued to him when you take note of Bro’s attention once again weaving in between people, his gaze slithering across the room- falling onto yours.

The hissing mutters and murmurs in the room buzz in your ears, nothing legible. The air in your lungs freezes in place and- and you forget how to breathe. You can’t breathe. There’s a bleeding pain in your chest, under your ribcage, and next to your lungs. Your heart’s ripping apart.  

All at once, you’re _not in a_ _courtroom. The setting dissipates away and you’re in the Red Room, and fuck, his eyes bore into your skull as the thick blood swishes around your bare feet. The floor is slated, but he told you to stay at the edge, right where the black-red water starts to amass. You’re toes are dipping in it._

_“John.” Your name echoes through the space. After a year of beatings and conditioning, you want to fall, to submit and bare your neck, waiting for the knife that carved thousands of scars into your back for disobeying._

_His hand holds your leash, and while he doesn’t tug at it, you feel like he’s already tightening the grip around your throat._

_Your heart pauses in your chest, your eyesight blur through cracked lenses, and you can’t breathe. The room is devoid of air, replacing it with a misty scent of metal on your tongue. Tears roll down your cheeks, and you’re close to bending over and throwing up the bit of food in your stomach._

_“John,” this time it’s Dave saying your name. Bro never repeats himself you’ve learned, so it had to be Dave. It’s the voice that’s whispered into your ear in the humid nights, a voice that’s never too far away, a constant reminder of who was always watching._

_You have to yield. Every fiber of your being screams, ear-piercingly, telling you to drop and beg, beg, beg. Beg._

_Dave stands on the other side of the room, in the puddle of blood grouped on that side, his katana in hand. There’s specks of blood in his messy, white-blonde hair; it’s blaring. He’s looking at you, you can tell by the way his head is turned toward you despite his black aviators. Dave’s interested in showing you whatever this is. There’s no way to tell by his face, but his thumb keeps drawing circles on the handle of the sword._

_Is he excited or nervous?_

_A person is hanging next to him by their wrists, the chain so old, you can see the rust from your spot. Their head falls against their shoulder, the pain so strong they must’ve passed out long ago. You blink, taking in how their pant leg is tied tight at the knee. The bottom is soaked with crimson. They’re missing a leg._

_The realization is numbing and for a second, you forget that you’re standing in a room that reeks of rotten flesh and metallic blood. They’re not wearing a shirt, baring a disturbingly skeletal stomach that’s been skinned around the naval. It’s a women, or so you think by the mutilated breasts, the ends of her black hair crusted with dried blood. She can’t be any older than 20._

_You force yourself to stare at her face, trying to memorize her features. You’re going to be one of the last people who will ever see her alive. A closer glance at her face reveals an infected hole on her check, showing the rows of broken teeth on the inside of her mouth._

_It’s shaped like a bite mark._

_You can’t hold back the vomit. You turn away to toss out everything in your stomach and even then, you can’t stop dry heaving. The aftertaste burns your throat and the tears in your eyes keep dropping into the patch of puke._

_You want your Dad, you want to stop_ him _from touching and touching, you want to sleep in a room where no one comes in every fucking night to just watch you, and most of all, you want to stop being terrified._

_“Dave.” At the sound of Bro’s voice, your head snaps up on instinct, and somehow your body freezes mid panic. It’s seemed to learn to tension at Bro’s slightest actions._

_Dave, with all the lanky limbs belonging to a 14 year old, understands what his brother means and swings at the women’s other leg, slicing it clean off. The thump it makes as it hits the floor is but a drop into the ocean as her voice renews in that instant._

_Her screams no longer sound human, and any words she might’ve known are gone from her mind, replaced with sobs and grunts of agony. She starts to struggle again, the chains that are holding her up ringing as she does so._

_Your hands brace themselves over your mouth and nose, trying to stop yourself from sobbing or gagging, or probably both. Closing your eyes, you want to go back to your room and huddle into a ball on the mattress._

_However, even you can tell Bro wanted you here to understand something very simple: You’re only alive because they want you to be. They could end you at any moment and it would be so_ easy _for them to do it. Every day you take in oxygen is a miracle on its own._

_Dave moves in front of the thrashing body, the tip of his sword at the women’s bellybutton, and oh god-_

_You turn away, quivering. You’re scared you’ll faint and then Bro will really be angry at you..._

_A hand laces over your face, a hand big enough that you can feel dull fingernails dig into either side of your face. Bro thrusts your head in the direction where Dave is slitting the women’s torso open. He doesn’t say watch, but he doesn’t need to._

_By the time her guts are hanging out of her and onto the floor, the women is quiet. With a small knife in hand, Dave makes hushed grunting noises as he uses it to pull out different organs: a kidney, pancreas, a single deflated lung, a piece of the intestine… Each falls from his hand and into the ocean of red at his feet._

_You know he’ll collect them later and fit each one into jars for preservation. They’ll become little less than decorations on his shelfs. You’re seen them in the Polaroid pictures of his room, a place you’re forbidden to go to by Bro._

_Bro releases your head from his clutch, and he stands next to you, arms crossed over his broad chest. He’s broad chested and with a narrow waist like the perfect bodies of male models, or masculine super heroes have in comic books. He doesn’t fit the image of an insane person._

_Even Dave with his weirdness doesn’t make sense. Dave can be odd but doing this? How is this real? How could Dave do this so effortlessly? What about the harmless Dave that awkwardly ranted minutes on end about the way he saw you practice the piano?_

_Then you remember the months of stalking he must’ve done to even see you play the piano. The thought process dies in your mind._

BANG

_A scream drips from your mouth at the sound and you know so must’ve been hit. You did something wrong. Bro got mad. Why did you make him mad? You must want to get hurt._

_You stare at the other end of your leash on the floor as you ball up, hands covering your head. There’s no pain. Bro had let go of your leash, and the heavy brass handle had hit the floor._

_Bro walks over to Dave, reaching for the dead body with his fingerless black gloves. Dave moves back, away from Bro in a manner that tries to look calm and nonchalant, but the cautious and stiffness is in his step in the way a muscle in his neck jumps._

_The man calmly caress the corpse’s face, thumbing over her cracked, bloody lips, and threads his hands into her knotted dark hair. He watches her for a moment, not a single hint of emotion you can see in his face._

_You wonder by the pretty Latino traits in her face if she spoke Spanish, and if she had ever wondered this was how it would end._

_Suddenly the demented, almost tender scene, breaks when Bro slips his hand into her chest. The squish noise emerges at every flick of his fingers. Unlike Dave, who used the knife to pluck the organs from the body, Bro’s hand simply clutches downs on something and_ pulls _._

_You think he stares at the dark pulpy heart through his sunglasses. “Das herz war zu kaput, es getan werden musste,” he speaks it lightly, caressing each syllable around his tongue. The words are unfamiliar and almost sound poetic in the way most foreign languages tend to. What is that?_

_Out the corner of your eye, you see Dave staring at you, his head cocked to the side. Looking up at him slowly, you can’t understand why he’s eyeing at you in…surprise? Then you realize that no one is holding your leash, the door behind you is open, and Bro’s on the other side of the room with Dave._

_You could run but- Your gaze stays at the open door as you start panting harder, crying harder. You tell yourself there would be no point; Bro and Dave are so fast, most of the time you can’t even see them move. There would be no point in trying._

_But really, the thought of leaving was too much to comprehend._


	2. i‘ll steal flowers from the cemetery for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find yourself looking over at Bro, looking for any hint of emotion. Makara is spilling everything. Bro’s mysterious background is dissolving, which should make you feel…better. But it doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter’s title is from Pierce the Veil’s “Besitos”. Great song! 
> 
> Thanks to all the people who pressed that beautiful kudos button on the bottom! And to bibliophileBiologist for being first to comment! <3
> 
> I know shit about the American judicial system so if anything is just totally wrong, that’s why.

“All raise for the Honorable Judge, Concordia Peixes!” The strong voice breaks through the nightmare of a memory haunting the back of your mind. Your eyes rip away from Bro’s hold, and you almost fall over when you try to stand along with everyone else.

Dad mutters to you, gentle but filled with worry. You stare at your feet, clutching his elbow hard, and try to calm yourself. You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you here. Your god has been stripped of all power.

You fretfully glance in his direction, but he’s left you alone, opting to watch the judge walk in with two guards.

By the time you’re sitting down again, Pyrope quietly suggests you and Dad stay in the waiting area outside. You don’t even have to look at Dad to know that he’s seriously taking the advice to heart, despite your words together in Seattle.

You grab ahold of Dad’s hand, tightly, and whisper, “I’m ok, I’m ok. Not yet. Please.” Your eyes are still tied down at your feet though, still petrified. Anyone looking at you could see how scared you must feel. But there’s must be something in your voice that convinces Dad to let you stay. He holds your hand as the trial comes to a start.

When you finally look up, you see the judge is a regal-looking women in her late 50s, skin black as coal, with dark hair tied up in a thick bun. Her glasses, large, rounded and pink, sit on the crooked bridge of her nose.

Her presence demands respect and her every motion, the way she arranges some papers to the way her eyes roam the room, are equal to a queen or empress. 

You close your eyes again, your mind urging you to keep calm or else you’ll have come for nothing. You need to see what’s going to happen in person. So many people are dead, and if you can’t even see this through, then they really wouldn’t have a voice.

Why was it you of all people? Why are you the one alive while hundreds of people had to die? There should’ve been at least one person to live and done right by hating Bro and Dave, like how it should be.

A part of you, you’re ashamed to even acknowledge it, wants to apologize to the Striders. You feel…guilty for doing this.

After all, you have to be just a little grateful to Bro. He was just trying his best to take care of you. All those dead bodies? Things happen like that every day, it’s not something so strange. The beatings? You were being bad. The rape? No, it was just another form of punishment, you were asking for it. You wouldn’t stop asking to leave, to go outside. You wouldn’t stop asking to take off the collar. You broke his rules.

(dave)

God, you want to see Dave. You know you could handle being around him more than Bro. Dave was always more of a friend. He never meant to hurt you. He didn’t know how it felt when you had to crawl on your knees naked. He liked the bruises. As time passed, he got better and better to talk to, if he wasn’t talking about _you_.

And he always tried to be gentle with you. He loved (loves) you so so much.

No.                                                                                               

No. No. That’s all wrong.

Hurting others like that is wrong. What they did to you was wrong and disgusting. They should rot somewhere, like they did to that poor women in the Red Room.

You try to recall what Dr. Serket said, that nothing was your fault. Both Dave and Bro are very ill inside their heads and that even then, it was no excuse for what they did to you or anyone else.

If it wasn’t for Aranea, you wouldn’t have been allowed this chance, if you just end up freaking out, or keep on thinking like that, all of your time with her, all her trust will be worth squat.

You quietly breathe through your mouth, blinking to take in the scene before you with a semi-clear head.

Makara’s talking about something. He’s a hulking man, the suit he wears almost looks like it’ll rip apart any second. You don’t like the snipping smile he has on. It feels like he’s winning a game. Your free hand tightens into a fist. 

He walks to and fro, his hands accordingly placed behind his back. He gestures with his dark head at a large picture on an easel. Both the judge and the jury are listening with close intent at what he’s saying. Your gaze lands on the picture, honestly expecting a grisly photograph, and instead, you see Dave.

However it can’t be Dave. The man in the picture is at least in his mid-30s, with trim blonde hair on his chin. His face is a handsome bony one, the well-defined angles someone might see on cover of magazines. His overall complexion is shades paler than the Dave you know.

His hands are pushed into the suit’s pockets, head inclined to the side as if the camera had piqued his interested. The man’s thin-lipped smirk matches the one Dave has given you on occasion. He even sports a similar pair of black aviators, his thick, darker blonde eyebrows curved upward to his hairline.

It makes you wonder who the person on the other side was to have gotten this reaction from this man.

“…elementary human social skills are instilled into the person at a young age. Dirk Strider’s home life was a troubled one, filled with questionable role models such as David Strider,” Makara points to the picture, “and Rosaline Lalonde. This quickly caused a lack of said skills for Dirk to learn.”

Another large photo comes out, this time of a stunning women on her 30s. She appears mysterious by the sly curve of her mouth, like you may study her for a hundred years and never understand her.

She’s also fair-haired, her asymmetrical bob more of a dirty blonde than the man’s, with profound and strange lavender eyes framed by almost brown lashes. Rosaline has the same dash of freckles on her otherwise blemish free face like Dave…and Bro.

A frozen chill licks its way up your spine. These people are their parents.

“David Strider was a genius 18 year old German immigrant when he came to the United States on student visa and film scholarship. Close associates say he was a quiet and sarcastic young man with big dreams of conquering New York with the satiric tone in his works.”

This time when the picture comes up, it holds the spitting image of Dave. It makes your insides ache with sadness. The hollowness in your chest sobs.

18 year old David Strider, blank faced, holds up an old fashion bulky camera, same shades hiding his eyes. On his arm is a younger Rosaline, plush lips on the man’s cheek. Her eyes close as if she’s enjoying the moment for the both of them. However, another young women kneels next to Rosaline, hugging her waist. The camera caught her in a fit of giggles. Her gaze, an interesting color of pink, cut into half-moons, her mouth open.

You can almost hear her laughter booming into the attentive courtroom. She feels like the type of person who could makes anyone smile just by being near.

The girl looks like Rosaline, from the color of her hair to her facial structure. She’s almost identical. No, she is.

You lick your lips nervously. You can see the same mess of freckles on her face too, and while her hair is longer than Rosaline, the ends curly and upbeat as she is, you’re confused. These two girls are obviously twins.

“It was no abnormality to hear of David Strider’s lure to charismatic and captivating things- in this situation - people. So after meeting Rosaline and Roxanne Lalonde, it was really no surprise that he grew attached.

The girls were second generation Polish-Americans living in New York, each one very different for the other. Roxanne was well on her way to the astrology portion of NYU while Rosaline’s…interests laid in the occult. Rumored a Satanist by the majority in the neighborhood,” Makara steps close to the jury, making eye contact with many of them, “she was known to be involved with things that were, in today’s definition, witchcraft.  

It was around this time that both girls got into an argument so bad, they stopped talking to each… But let’s get back to this later.

Rosaline was pregnant within the year of meeting David-”

“Objection!” Nitram calls from his seat, making you jump. Dad squeezes your hand. “Your Honor, just how relevant is it to tell the defendant’s entire backstory?”

Makara’s teeth grind together. You can imagine the type of anger issues he has.

“Overruled.” The judge taps her fingers on the wood. “Get to your point, Councilor.” Her voice is unlike what you would expect from her; it’s high and airy.

The defense attorney nods firmly, moving back to the pictures of an older David and Rosaline.

“David Strider was a careless young father, choosing to run off for weeks, months, leaving Rosaline to care for their newborn son. As time went on, she began unorthodox pagan rituals to cure her loneliness, her husband’s frequent departures… A result of these stressful procedures caused Rosaline to find solace in alcohol. 

Previously discussed at much length, Doctor Scratch made clear how intense events to infants can cause lifetime consequences into adulthood. From the time Dirk could walk, a mere baby, he was accustom to neglect.” As he talks, Makara’s hands became animated, his voice almost excited.

He gestures to someone off to the side, who passes out pieces of paper to the jury. He himself hands a sheet to the guard closest to the judge. The man, a large scar over his eye, grabs it and passes it on to the judge.

“Social Services records show how many times Rosaline was visited regarding her child. A total of 15 times by the time Dirk was five. 15. The only explanation on how he was not taken away from her, was that the system was rusted in 1987. 

13 years old and Dirk had already ran away from home 22 times, each time always returning because the thought of leaving his alcoholic mother was too much. She had conditioned him that leaving her was the _vilest_ thing he could do!”

You find yourself looking over at Bro, looking for any hint of emotion. Makara is spilling everything. Bro’s mysterious background is dissolving, which should make you feel…better. But it doesn’t. Actually knowing what happened to him should make things clearer, see how a monster was created, but all you feel is pity.

Then you remember the feel of the dirty mattress, the sensation of wading through ankle deep blood in the Red Room. You can feel lips against your neck as Bro fucks you raw. You can’t look away because you’re on your back and there’s more blood running down your thighs and god it feels like there’s a rusted knife stabbing your stomach again again again again again-

Dad leans in to you. You’re trembling. “If you feel like this is too much, we can take a break,” he whispers. He’s still holding your hand. You’re 17 years old, and you still need your hand to be held by your Dad. It feels natural, like the 12 year old you never really got the chance to hold it.

The picture of David Strider catches your eyes, and you can absolutely say you hate that man. He doesn’t deserve the name of father. He didn’t deserve the tiny kid that Bro was either. Or Dave.

You find yourself shaking your head at Dad’s offer.

“Objection, Your Honor! How can Mr. Makara claim Rosaline Lalonde believed Dirk Strider leaving her was a “vile” thing?!” Samuel Nitram stands up at this, his palms resting face-down on his desk. The lawyer is a wide-shoulder man with a booming, strong voice. His presence beckons attention.

The judge’s mouth twists, thinking a second before saying, “ _Sit down_ Councilor. I’ll allow it.”

Nitram reluctantly does so, appearing disappointed.

“Dirk was close to getting a full ride to his choice college if it wasn’t for his father telling him not to take it, that his mother would need his help with the new baby. Keep in mind that Dirk had only seen his father a handful of times by this time.  

All of this placed Dirk in a fragile state of mind. Everything told him that adults were cruel, selfish beings who only did things if it was to their own gain.”

Makara pauses, his dark eyes roaming the room. Seeing a captive audience, he takes a drink of his water glass. More paper passes around the jury, and Makara repeats the process to give the judge her own copy.

“The file being passed around to Her Honor and the jury is the NYPD’s case folder, dubbed Stri-Londe by the officers.”

At the words, you stare at Bro again, knowing that he has to look like- something, anything. Still, you’re met with nothing but a vacant expression. Why doesn’t this hurt him? The years you spent with him made you question Bro’s emotional capacity, and now, after seeing all of this, it leaves you thinking (again) he can’t feel.

“When Dirk was 18, his brother a toddler, their mother had a mental breakdown.

It was a cold Christmas Day when David returned home, an oddity all on its own. Once he entered the vicinity, Rosaline calmly questioned him over several letters she had received from Roxanne. After years of no contact, 18 years to be precise, the other Lalonde sister had confessed to Rosaline she was a mother. The children, both girls, were David’s.”

There’s movement out the corner of your eye where Bro is. He shifted in his seat. His hands on the table move into his lap, hiding them out of sight. Almost squinting, you can see the muscles in his arms seizing. His face is still stoic as ever, though. But you know the tiniest signs of his to tell something made him angry. Very very angry.

Bro’s eyes are trained on Makara.

“He didn’t know…” The words are half formed in your brain when you say it out loud. He didn’t know that his attorney was going to discuss that part of his past. Bro obviously didn’t give a shit about his parents, at least not enough to warrant a reaction.

 _“Bro has a picture of ‘em. I saw it once, just a peek. Got a concussion from Bro but I was bein’ noisy, so it’s an even trade…” Dave uttered in your ear, his hot breath relaxing in the freezing winter night. “The one that’s same age as me… She looks like me.”_ Dave had mentioned them before.

Bro’s relationship with Dave still confuses you. It’s clear to you he cares very deeply for Dave. You don’t think he hated him, or even disliked him. Bro loves Dave. But Bro was constantly dominating him. Everything Bro did might’ve was a mixture of endearment and putting Dave in his place. If his parents really were like this, then it’s no surprise what you’ve seen.

You think of the days when you could hear Dave screaming on the roof, then coming down a couple days later with a new scar or broken bone. You recall the nights when there were echoes of running feet all over the floors until it abruptly stopped, loud moans replacing them.

(oh dave. dave)

Bro cares for these girls. For some reason, he cares a lot.

“The girls are close in age to Dirk and his younger brother, meaning in one of his continual disappearing acts, David sought out Roxanne- not once but two times. It was close to this first time that both Roxanne and Rosaline had a fight. About David. It seemed that both could only agree that he would only result in a problem for one another.

Roxanne left for school soon after, unaware of Rosaline or herself being pregnant.

In her letter, Roxanne expresses her sorrow over keeping this a secret and the fear of Rosaline hating her for letting this to happen. Close friends of Rosaline said that no man could ever stand in between the sisters.”

He points out to the jury of the letter inside the folder for them to see themselves.

“So what we can speculate that drove Rosaline over the edge was the fact that she allowed just this to happen. She must’ve realized that so much time passed, so much time wasted on David and hoping he would finally become a decent father, she lost her twin sister for almost two decades.

At this point, David must’ve felt cornered, and the arguing started. Dirk took his two year old brother and hid in his room upstairs. Several minutes passed, the yelling and screaming morphed into physical fighting.

Rosaline took one her knitting needles and stabbed him right in the chest.” Makara mimics the motion of stabbing himself with something.

“Now, soon after this, Dirk finally comes back down with a baby on his hip. He walks through the broken glass and furniture to see his father bleeding on the carpet. Rosaline is straddling him, her hands still holding down the needle. The report explains she stabbed him so deeply through the heart, that it left an indention on the floor underneath.

Imagine being this 18 year old kid, whose whole life was filled with nothing but disappointments, loneliness, and pain, watching his mother kill his father.

Then, Rosaline takes the other needle and pushes it into her neck. Much like this.” He suddenly picks up a long, slender item off the table, holding it up for the jury to see. It’s a knitting needle.

“Basic human instinct do not allow for this type of self-impairment, it would’ve needed enormous strength and willpower to do something like this into one’s own throat.” He slowly pretends to slide the needle into his throat.

He pulls out a bigger photograph, revealing two bloody bodies, the women slumped on top of the man.  

“It was this that drove Dirk to run. He panicked, so terrified of what he saw that he just left. The search began for both of them but every lead turned up cold and nothing was to be found of Dirk or Dave. Contact with Roxanne a week after the Stri-Londe case resulted in another tragedy. She committed suicide, the loss of her sister too much to bear.

The loss here surrounds Dirk Strider to this very day, twisting his moralistic views 'til the outcome showed itself in the form of what happened in that hotel.”

* * *

 

A short recess is called, and for good reason, it’s been close two hours of Makara’s side. You don’t know is you can handle another two of the prosecution. Dad offers you to rest away from the crowd and the hushed mutters. Honestly, you want too. You’re nervous of being the same room as Bro, of thinking thoughts that crisscross over another.

You really just want to go to sleep, listening to the faint hum of How Do I Live in the background.

But in the end, you know that’s not how it’s going to play out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you guys might be thinking, “Where’s john and dave’s interaction?!!11??1” Welp, this whole chapter was for some background info and John’s thoughts about Bro in general. Next chapter will answer all of your questions (hopefully). 
> 
> It’s gonna be looooong, so look forward for it. I’m a kinda ¾ done with it and I also have the last chapter planned out in my head. 
> 
> I’m always happy to hear your thoughts. Thanks again for reading!


	3. i need your love before I fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have built, deep in my heart, a chapel filled with you."  
> -Marcel Proust
> 
> Dave misses John. John misses Dave. There are horrors written in these words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from a line in the song, “Save Me” by BTS. I’m kpop trash too guys.
> 
> This chapter is ridiculously long, so keep that in mind. I also changed the rating for the fic. It gets intense here, around the middle-ish, so keep the tags in mind ‘cause here comes the non-con.

You stare at your hands.

They aren’t special.

You vaguely remember the first time you held a sword, tiny, chubby toddler fingers curling around the handle. You can recall the memories from when Bro dropped you in the middle of a forest (maybe it was in California), with nothing more than your katana, and left. Seven year old Dave’s hands got pretty bloody that whole week from gutting rabbits and fish.

Then from people.

Your left thumb twitches.

There’s a heavy feeling pulsing inside your chest, everyday growing. Bro’s face pops into your mind, and you miss him. God, you fucking miss that asshole. You worshiped the ground he walked on, stitched his scarce words into your heart; he was god.

Was.

Before you laid eyes on your soulmate and converted. The moment your eyes spotted John, time stopped.

You never wanted something (someone) as much as you wanted him. Before you knew what happened, you followed him everywhere for months. From the park where he played with a redheaded shit to his piano practices to climbing up his tree as many nights as you could to watch him sleep. Sometimes after he left, you’d open his window and lay in hid bed. You didn’t dare take anything. Everything in his possession was too blessed, too untouchable, for you at that point.

You followed him into an old indie thrift shop once too. As his dad went about lookin’ for a suitcase, John picked up a pair of shades off the stand. Giggling he tried on the aviators, and left them back after showing off to his dad.

You bought them with the all the money you had on you, which wasn’t much, but enough to pay for ‘em. The next time you saw Bro with the new shades on, he didn’t need to say anything. His approve was obvious.

John was everything. You’ve never seen anything so innocent. Like a strong gust of air, it brushed away all of the weigt off on your chest. You needed him.

“Da-”

Sure, it was a spontaneous thing to suddenly grab him on his birthday, but it was a now or never sorta moment for you. It needed to be done. You knew deep down, he needed you too. You thought of it as a birthday present for him- bringing him together with his soulmate.

After years of sparring with Bro, it wasn’t hard to hold him down, smothering his nose and mouth with the rag, letting him breathe in the chemicals that would have him fall asleep.

Bro only quirked a brow when you brought in an unconscious 13 year old to the van. Picking up his chin, he pried one of his eyes open, and at spotting the brilliant shade of blue, he ran a hand through his messy black hair. He looked up at your grinning face, all excited, one of the few times where your Strider cool blew away. “Happy late birthday, lil’ man.” It was all that was said about the matter.

The three of you were out of the state as the sun rose, and by the third day, you brought John to his new home with you and Bro. It took him forever to get used to it, but you knew he would.

You remember how big his blue eyes got when he gave you his fingernails for your 14th birthday. He looked all small and weepy-eyed as Bro held down his arm for you to get with the pliers. John was scared of pain. He was delicate like that at first too. You kept muttering sorry for the hurt, but the five cracked fingernails looked like stars on your ceiling. He shuttered away from you the following weeks but Egbert knew you were his, and he got over it.

John understood Bro’s patience wasn’t fucking infinite, either. Egbert stopped talking about leaving after a year, and he realized he wanted you back too.

You had John and that was all that mattered.

Yet the loyalty pounded into your soul yearns for Bro’s forgiveness. There’re regrets weighing inside your chest and then shame for even feeling those.

_You_ were the one who gave John the drugs for Christ’s sake. You _stood_ by as Bro closed his bedroom door, knowing that today was the last day your world would stand straight. You watched as John (your best friend, your only friend) slammed the butt of Bro’s _own_ sword into his head and tied him to the wall.

And you did nothing.

It was all for John, though.

“-ve.”

Every day you expect Bro to show up and flip you onto your stomach to teach you a lesson. He always said you would never been old enough for a lesson.

Your chest tightens, practically hearing his voice at the base of your spine.

“Dave!” Your eyes groggily inch up to meet with your state attorney, lawyer, whatever. There’s no difference to you. You can’t even remember his name.

He clears his throat. You watch him for the longest time, until he shifts in his seat (must be the eyes, fuck, you miss your shades). “I’ve got some good news and bad news, Dave.” He pauses, waiting for your response, and when you stay silent, he clears his throat again. “Good news first then. After looking at your background and your age, the prosecution took off the death penalty.”

You didn’t even know that was a possibility. But… But it was up for you, then Bro must’ve-

“What about Bro?” The sound that comes from you is hoarse from weeks not speaking. It’s almost painful, but you’ve done worse.

This takes Lawyer Guy off guard, his eyes flint down to his little notebook and writes something down. He angles the paper so you can’t see it. You frown.

He clears his throat again. “The bad news, Dave, is that they’re demanding a life sentence without possibility of parole.” He’s not answering you. Why isn’t he answering? “Since we already pleaded guilty, we just need to try for a chance of parole. You-”

Your hands slam onto the table, snapping, “What about Bro?!”

The guards at the door get to you faster than a white chick to a pumpkin spice latte. Each one grabs ahold of your upper arms tightly. You could break their wrists. You should break their wrist. Bro- He-

Lawyer Guys comes to your rescue, motioning the guards to stop moving as harsh. “Dave- Listen to me, Dave. This is your last chance here, stop struggling and you can still back down with me, ok? Let’s just calm down.”

Your jaw clutches at the shit baby talk that’s barfing out this guy’s mouth. The “choke on a dick” lays on the tip of your tongue, but you need to know what’s happening out there and that won’t happen if you’re stuck in your cell the next three weeks. You stop “struggling”.

The old man looks pleased with himself, nodding to the officers. They drop you down in your harshly.

“Watch it guys. I’m the most important princess in the room right now,” you drawl.

“Dave, please. I’m here to help you. Let me help you. We need to work together.” You look past him, over the top of his too big right ear. You hear him clear his throat like a bee was set loose in there. “I’ll tell you what happened with Dirk Strider if you agree to what I’m about to propose.”

Your gaze drags back to meet his. You sigh, dragging your hand through your short hair. You hate it. Bro would surely have mocked you for the lame style. The Strider hair was practically holy.

“Keep talkin’.”

“ _Talk_ to the psychologist, Dave.”

“No.”

“Why not? If we want to try for a chance of parole in your sentence, we need someone to evaluate your mental health.” He’s face stays patient, but it’s his the tone in his voice that betrays the look. He sounds done.

You lean back in your chair. “I’m not talkin’ to some dick who thinks he’s some sort of BL expert.” His blank stare makes you roll your eyes. Your body pushes itself back close to the table. “I’m not talkin’ about Egbert. Not with him or anyone else you pay to sit their ass in front of me.”

Lawyer Guy opens him mouth, starts with something, yet cuts himself off before the first word can fully leave. His hand blindly writes down another note, and as he catches you trying to see it, he flips the whole damn thing over.

“Deal. Mr. Egbert will not be discussed unless you bring it up.”

“Not likely…” Sigh. “Deal. And Bro? What he sentenced to? His trial was just eight days ago right? It’s hard to keep track of time in here.”

His lips purse. He clear his throat. What the fuck is wrong with him? “He’s been found guilty on all charges, every one of his acts deemed he committed with a capable mind. Dirk Strider was sentenced to the death penalty.”

No way. 

He starts babbling about how your case is a lot better than his and it won’t end like his and fuck. Fuck. They’re going to kill your brother. They won’t let him stay in some prison, they want him dead.

Your big brother.

They don’t even know Bro. They don’t know about the first couple years with old Jake, how Bro was different, softer with you by his side. You were only 4, but you remember. You remember living in that tiny, shitty cabin with the two of them. You remember the feel of Jake’s scratchy white whiskers on your face. Bro made airplane noises when he fed you.

Bro taught you how to skin a fish.

(a person)

Bro told you never to listen to anyone who said you weren’t good enough.

(you were better than them)

 Bro loves you.

The pressure behind your eyes build and builds, your throat’s goin’ to close up. It burns. It burns. John. You want John. His touch was a soothing breeze whenever you felt too much, it erased all the pain.

Hammering in your chest, the pulsin’ gonna explode, there’s so much _shit_. If you saw John, you’d died and come back, like when you first saw him. You’d be saved all over again.

You want Jo-

The door opens up, and someone sticks their hand in, a single piece of folded paper in between their fingers. One of the douches in blue by the door grabs ahold of the piece, reading it and nodding to the person hidden behind the door. The officer walks up to Lawyer Guy and bends down to whisper something into his ear.

He nods, hand covering his lips as he responds. You watch Lawyer Guy clear his goddamn throat.

“Dave, answer me this please. Do you think you behaved well during this time?” For the first time this whole conversation, you glance over to where the camera stands, like an obnoxious bird perched in a tree.

“Want me to suck your cock while I answer?” you keep your gaze on the camera, murmuring the words without much thought.

“Dave,” his voice turns sharp.

Meeting his eyes again, you flatly reply, “I’m serious.” He gapes like this one chubby guy did right as Bro slipped a knife into his lungs.

He abruptly stand up. “You have a visitor, Dave. Consider this a bonus for agreeing to the psychologist.” He turns away quickly, his hand scribbling something else onto his notebook.

You catch the single word:

_Vulnerable_.

* * *

 

Dad can’t come into the room with you. Some rule about being one on one or something. The guards kept reassuring him that while no officer would be in the room with you, there would be on Dave’s side. You’ll be stuck with a video camera recording your exchange.

Dad didn’t really have much of a chance after that. It was either this or nothing. You weren’t going to have nothing.

Now as you sit in a plush chair staring at empty space in front of you, you feel at peace for once. The hollow inside of you whimpers at knowing you’ll see Dave.

Dave. Dave. You miss him. You miss him so damn much. He’s all wrong and everything he did was wrong, and you’ve told yourself you’ll hate him (one day) and that’ll have to be enough. Yet for now, now you need him.

Suddenly the door behind the glass opens, and he steps in.

Your eyes lock and the empty place fills with warmth. An impossible sense of safety hugs your being.

_The stupid creaking door alerts every time someone unlocks your door, but then Dave’s voice, his presence, appears like aloe on your body. You can’t remember the last time you saw him. It’s been a while without any contact with him or Bro._

_“Shit, hey Egbert. I had stuff to do with Bro this whole week. Did ya eat what we left you?” he whispers, coming closer._

_In the early morning light coming from the tiny barred window, you see something in his hand._

_His words register a second later, and you blink hard and fast to keep the tears at bay, because to you, it wasn’t a week of “stuff with Bro,” it was an endless period of bondage within your thoughts and the fuckingworriesthattheyweren’tcomingbackforhim._

_Dave sees some of the horror sweep across your face. He quickly slumps down to your level on the mattress and shoves the thing in his hand under your nose, his cheeks alit under his suntanned skin, blocking out the freckles on them._

_“Happy Birthday…John.” Tears come at that moment. You wish it was only ‘cause it marks year two, two whole fucking years of pain and blood, of bruises on your bones that will never leave you, and wondering thoughts if Dad ever gave up on you._

_Yet some of these tears are because he cares enough you get you this red woven bracelet. It’s a small wooden circle engraved with D on one side and J on the other. He would later show you the anklet around his skinny ankle, everything the same expect the color. You never found out how he knew blue was your favorite color._

‘John,’ his lips form the word. A shiver passes through your body just by watching it.

A guard nudges him to sit down. He does, eyes never leaving yours. Your hands tremblingly (desperately) grab the phone at your right, bringing it to your ear.

“John.”

You gasp softly into the phone. Buckteeth bite into your bottom lip as you start to cry. Your hands push up your glasses to palm at wetness.

“John.”

Weeping, you close your eyes, keeping the phone to your ear, trapping the sound of your name on his lips into your memory. It’s been a while.

“Dave.”

Through your horribly blurred eyesight, you see Dave’s shape on the other side. His blonde head slumps against the window and you can hear him crying too, hard and beautifully broken.

The two of you don’t cry for long. They told you one hour, and you’re sure they told Dave the same thing. There isn’t much time to sit and sob, there’s too much to talk about.

After a moment, you finally sit with a tearstained face. On the other side, Dave does the same, staring at you with those eyes, red as rubies. Like Bro, his hair’s been cut short, and like with him, you’ve never seen Dave’s blonde hair this way. It sharpens his facial features and highlights the scatter of freckles.

You’re reminded of David Strider and Rosaline Lalonde. Looking at Dave with what you know now, you can tell he inherited a lot from each of them. The dark, tired circles around his eyes are the only thing he has that look like you.

The media went on and on about Dave. His mugshot popped up even more than Bro’s, or maybe it just felt like it did to you. Either way, there were clear, steady reports of a good-looking young man helping slaughter 60 plus people along with his older brother. There were fan pages brought up by groupies, girls and guys who Bro and Dave wouldn’t look at even if they did dye their hair. Church groups went on and on about his devilish red eyes, condemning without even knowing him. Fuck those bible-humpers, you thought then.

The color suddenly pulls you out of your thoughts. It’s what’s he’s wearing. A bright orange jumpsuit. There’s a set of numbers escribed on it; 12395. After this, Dave will return to a cell somewhere. You remember seeing his mugshot every time the news reports about the Ebony Killings. You swallow thickly. Dave’s the same age you and he’s in prison.

He’s such an idiot.

Your eyes flutter close again, trying to take in air for your lungs. “You should’ve come with me Dave,” you utter into the phone.

Your fingers tighten around the phone at Dave’s rusted voice. “How could I leave ‘em?” He sounds like he hasn’t spoken in the months since he was arrested. He’s beyond emotional too, accent thick with each passing word.

“You should have! You’re a part of everything that happened Dave, but this is just as wrong. You should be out here with me, getting help, and aiming to fix all of this shit.” You begged him to run with you. If Bro woke up to see Dave standing around, untouched, Bro would’ve tortured him for not stopping you.

“He’s my brother, Egbert. I couldn’t...”

There was no other way after Dave refused your offer. Another part of you crumpled as he did. So you punched him once, on the cheek, logical part of your brain knowing to make it look real so that Bro saw he put up a fight. A bigger part of you punched him out of frustration and ache that he could actually let you go.

He didn’t even raise his arms to defend himself. It took that once punch to knock him out. Your hand broke, the pain not as horrific as the one bleeding in your chest then.

Now, it’s his undying loyalty to Bro to blame for this.

“And what about me?!” Your eyes are open now, your body shaking with emotion. “You said you loved me, but I had to go through everyone staring at me, telling how I’m suppose feel about Bro- about you. All by myself. Everything you said, that you loved me more than anything else…was that all a fucking lie?!”

His mouth falls open, his round eyes shining in the room’s ugly pale yellow lighting. His lips look red. Your gut twists because you want to kiss him. You want to kiss him and hug him, keeping him close to you.

The rational part of you (it sounds like dr. serket) pleads with you that it’s wrong. You need to hate him, but you can’t. Now as you can finally see him in person, hear him, the hole inside whispers to you, crying, you hate _what_ he did, but you can’t hate _him_. Not now, not as long as you feel like this. 

“Egbert, John, no.” He bows his head, the tears still unshed. His hand pounces against the glass and stays there. “I- I love you… So much. The second I saw you, I knew. I wanted to be your friend. You were the best thing I’ve ever seen.” His voice chokes up, trying to keep his tone neutral with some forced laughter. He sounds desperate to make sure you know this.

“I never knew Asians could have blue eyes, but there you were with your nerdy glasses, babblin’ to anyone who walked in front of your house on that weird as fuck ghost toy.”

His eyes ask (plead, beg, beseech) you to believe what he’s saying, to trust in his swords. At once, you feel conflicted about it all. You’re not sure how trusting him in the past has done you much good… Yet it did those last couple days, didn’t it? It took you weeks of begging him to get you the drugs and a syringe, but he got them.

How would’ve it played out if you hadn’t trusted in Dave then?

“I never knew how it felt to not feel heavy, but for the first time ever, everything felt light.” His right hand rests on the glass. You can see his tremble.

The next time he speaks, his voice is so gentle, so soft, you want to cry all over again. You want to trust him almost as much as you want him with you. “I hated it when he hurt you. I wanted you to be happy with us.

I showed you pictures of that den of rabbits by the hotel. You told me all the jokes you knew, and I even laughed when they were stupid as fuck. You loved all the tapes I made for you. You told me I was your best friend.

I tried to make it better. Didn’t I?”

Yes, he did. He made you happy. Even sitting like this, between a two inch thick wall of glass, he makes you happy. The air is breathable and the empty place inside fills with bliss. “Yes,” your voice cracks, but you finds yourself not caring.

Dr. Serket’s voice fades to the farthest corner of your mind. Dave gives you a watery smile at your answer. His fingers curl a little where they are against the glass. “Don’t leave me hangin’, Egbert.”

Your tiny laugh sounds crooked when you place your left hand on his. The glass is cold, you can see your fingers are longer than his (piano fingers as someone described once upon a time), but his a little bigger. You take note that his tan has faded, leaving him a faint brown rather than the darker bronze of before.

“I wish you were with me.”

“I am. I am.”

That makes you smile, a tiny loser of a smile. You know you can’t change what’s happened, so now, you have to work with what’s going on now. Licking your lips, you reveal out loud for the first time, “I can’t stop having nightmares about him.”

“Bro?”

You nod, eyes still trained on your hands. You wonder if the police will ever give you back that red bracelet, claiming it “evidence”.

Dave makes a soft, almost painful noise. “He’s gonna die, ain’t he?”

You look back at him, surprised he knew that. “Yes,” you finally say, throat tight. You can’t say you hate Dave, and while you prefer never to see Bro again, knowing he’s going to die, it make you feel…sad. It’s disturbing.

Your hand falls away from the window. Dave’s frown deepens and his eyes search yours, as if trying to find out the mistake he made on your face. His eyes look all watery again, so you end up blurting, “Why didn’t you ever mention Jake English?”

His confusion only shows itself in the way his brows bend together. “What?”

You know that the camera watches you from the side. Looking up at the guard with Dave, you know that you made a mistake. “How did ya know that name?” You hear, his voice even and low. Both of you are too aware of the prison guard behind him.

Taking a big breathe, you know you need to say this as quickly as possible. “That was his trigger, Dave. After he took you and left home, he met someone named Jake English. Apparently he helped Dirk and you go off grid and they- They fell in love.

But…you guys weren’t with him too long before he died. He fell during a hike. He was an old guy.” You try not to speak it like you’re hyped on sugar, but if they notice you talking about this, they’ll take you out. You can’t talk about an open case, especially with Dave.

Dave’s lips part but he stays silent as you quickly continue. “They brought in his granddaughter, Jade Harley, for questioning. She found his cabin recently, somewhere in Montana. Jake had some sort of diary hidden and it was used as evidence. The point is, Bro started everything right after Jake died. Right now, they’re looking into the resting period he did in 2010 for a couple months.”

You have a feeling what, or rather who, they’re investigating about that. 

Dave stares at his hand, lips still parted, eyes lost in whatever his mind paused at. When he speaks, volumes lower than yours. “Bro told me never to mention his name.”

“Dave.” He brings his gaze up to yours. “They had a picture of him, one around the time Bro met him and another when he was younger. He fits the profile Bro went for, Dave. He’s the reason for the profile.”

Dave’s Adam’s apple bobbles as he swallows, wiping a hand over his face. “I never thought of that… You look like ‘em, don’t you?” His hand covers his eyes. “John, that’s why he kept you. It was all about Jake.” Your heart catches at his words, they sound so exposed. “I-I’m sorry.” His voice hums near rambling, it’s shaking so much. The wet trails of tears start to peer from under his hand.

This time it’s you pressing a hand to the glass. “Dave… _Dave_. Look at me. Look!” His hand slowly moves away, revealing bloodshot eyes. “I won’t _ever_ leave you, I promise.” The turmoil that swirls inside of your chest still lays at a tranquility that you‘ve only experienced whenever Dave visited you inside the hotel room.

More tears fall from his eyes. You would give anything to make him stop crying. “I love you, John.”

The words shape in your mouth, distorted and waited on for years, “I-”

‘Time’s up.’ The guard with Dave snatches the phone out of Dave’s hand, returning it to its place. Immediately, you see Dave snap at him and even look like he won’t stand up. He glances over you. He must see the worried expression on your face, because he chews on his bottom lip, eyebrows stitching together, and does what he’s told.

You sit there for a moment, listening to the approaching footsteps outside of your door.

The words stuck in your throat go unsaid and unnoticed as they escort you out.

Officers swarm around you and Dad takes the lead talking while your mind stays back with Dave. Dad checks out and even when he calls your name, you ignore it.

The ride home is quiet. You know Dad’s bidding his time until he can gently get around asking you, but as soon the car pulls up in the drive way, you and he race inside, avoiding the reports outside.

“John?” Dad starts to say something once you two get inside the house, panting a little. You shake your head, inky black hair falling into your line of vision, and sluggishly head up to your room.  

It’s the sound of your footsteps walking up the stairs that slows your heartbeat. Soon enough, you lay in your unmade bed, staring at the ceiling.

You almost told him you love him.

Wetness glazes over your vision, and you bit hard enough on the inside of your cheek that you quietly gasp at the sting. You should have told him that before. He certainly did, time and time again, but you were so stupid not to tell him when you were with him.

You unseeing eyes close and _you stand in front of the open window, as far as the chain around your neck will allow you. The cold night air’s your only air condition in the stuffy room._

_Your fingers grip the collar. The skin under there’s itchy, and you wonder when Dave will give you your next bath. You’re allowed to a bath three times a week, maybe four if you’re bloody enough. Dave has to bring up the buckets of water for you, with your bathroom not having any running water. You’ve long forgotten the embarrassment of having to take a piss or shit in a bucket._

_Sighing, your hand slips from the collar, moving to push up your glasses instead._

_Right now you may be hot but as the night drags on, the room with freeze up until you bundle up in the thin sheet on your mattress._

_Off to the side, the door creaks open like it always does. It forces your attention to move there._

_Dave closes the door behind him softly. You almost relax knowing it’s him who’s paying a visit and not Bro. When Bro comes in, you never know if he’s going to want to have sex, or hit you. Dave only comes in to watch you sleep._

_You still don’t know how many nights he comes in to watch you, but he’s never come in with you already up and awake._

_“’Sup,” he says first, his usual greeting. His hands are pushed into his sweat pants, his whole stance casual as if he simply happen to watch into your room in the middle of the night. His tall, slender figure draws a moonlit shadow on the floor, stretching high up._

_You smile despite yourself, taking ahold of the chain so it doesn’t drag on the floor on the way back to the mattress. It’s only after you sit down that you reply with a “Hey”.  He nods, his shades catching the moonlight. There’s a moment of silence where you two stare at one another._

_Your hands moves to pat the spot next to you. He stays where he is, and you’re worried that you messed up somehow, but then he walks over to you, bare feet soundless on the wooden floor. You grin up at him, knowing it’ll calm him down._

_He sits about a foot away from you, staring down at his feet shyly. He must feel awkward about being caught, you think. You see his blue bracelet around his ankle and think back to yours, hidden in a small hole under the floorboards. Nonetheless, it encourages you._

_“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask indifferently, pretending you don’t know he comes in often. The first year or two, you would’ve felt disturbed that he did that, yet now all you can feel is a little flattered._

_His head tilts up your way a bit, a corner of his mouth pulling up. “You know it. Crows ‘n trolls run through my brain like its fuckin’ fun night at Disneyland.” You don’t bother to tell him that trolls and crows aren’t exactly a Disney thing. “It’s crazy up in there, blood splatter and guts everywhere.”_

_His last words unconsciously cause your throat to dry up and you look away from him to the window._

_Yesterday, someone had gotten out of the Red Room. Bro kept the new people there although they’re never there for more than three days. But yesterday you knew someone had made a run for it. You could hear a shockingly clear, unfamiliar scream all the way up from the roof where Dave was taking you out for your daily walk._

_“Help me! Help me!_ _Anyone_! Please! Help me! _” You couldn’t tell if it was a girl or boy but Dave was already running to the agape door, his sword at his back. The door slammed shut behind him and you stared at it, the yelling increasing and the words dwindling. Against your better mind, your hand gripped the handle and pulled, but it was locked._

_Not long after that, the screaming stopped altogether and you sat in the scorching Texas sun, waiting for Dave to return._

_“Egbert? Hey, Egbert?” Blinking the memory away, you turn to look at Dave. The expression on his face resembles worry. The sense of self-disgust hits you harder than Bro ever could. Dave shouldn’t look like that for you. “Are you ok?”_

_You’re dry throat can’t speak the words to reassure him you’re fine. You imagine what they must’ve done to that person, because when Dave came back for you, he was bathed in blood._

_Dave’s face loses that playfulness from a minute ago, replaced by something older and sadder. No matter what Bro’s done to you, you know he must’ve done worse to Dave. After all, the four years you’ve spent with the Striders can’t compare to the 17 years Dave’s been with Bro._

_No wonder Dave’s so fucked up. Being raised by a monster like Bro._

_“I should go-” he murmurs, shoulders curling in._

_Panic clouds your mind, it’s like a slap to the face. You don’t want Dave to hate you._

_“Dave?”_

_He stiffens next to you, his movements stopping immediately. You lean in close to him, your hand reaching over the couple inches to lace your fingers together. He trembles in your hold, taking in a breath. “Can I kiss you?”_

_It’s the only thing your brain can think of to keep him from hating you. From leaving you. He’s your best friend. And you know he wants more than that._

_You’ve seen the way he looks at you. He loves you with all his heart._

_The first few months with him made you think he was different in the worst ways: murmuring under his breath whenever you looked at him, ranting on and on about personal things no one could’ve known unless they went into your bedroom, your school, ripping off your nails with this saddened happiness on his face. You’ve come to know it’s a result of a lack of social skills and a crush._

_Dave loves you._

_With a shaky nod of his head, you swallow to keep down the butterflies in your stomach. He keeps you sane, bound to the ground during times when it would’ve been so easy to float away. Nothing hurts as much if you’re with him._

_Your remaining hand reaches over to gently pull off his sunglasses, a pair of aviators like the ones Ben Stiller’s worn. You place them on the floor and repeat the same with your glasses. Dave’s red eyes glow in the darkness of the room. Without his shades, every single one of his emotions strikingly clarifies._

_You close your eyes, hoping to push back the nerves and fear. This isn’t your first kiss, you gave that to Karkat on a dare in the fifth grade. It’s a thing Bro Strider wasn’t able to take from you too._

_But this is special. You’ve choosing to kiss Dave because maybe you love Dave._

_If you’re miserable, he slips his old headphones over your ears and plays a mixtape on his Walkman. He shows you Polaroids of the places he’s been too. He’s always the one to bring you food, to carry the seven buckets of water it takes to fill the bathtub, to listen to you talk about the magic tricks you’ve learned._

_Closing the gap, you can feel his warm breath on your lips._

_You find out that he’s a good kisser, probably learned from the mouth of his older brother. You push away the thought of Bro, and continue to kiss Dave. His lips are warm, yours might be chapped but it hardly seems to matter now._

_The remarkable difference between this one kiss and the thousands Bro’s taken is how_ soft _it is. Someone’s quivering, you’re not sure who it is, and one of your hands move to grip Dave’s shirt. It’s black and worn, but in your clutch it feels better than silk. Beneath your fingertips, you can feel his heart bang against his ribcage._

Bump-bum

Bump-bum

_A tiny whimpers slips from your mouth and he devours the sound, hands pushing into your hair, brushing through and tugging on it slightly. His teeth bite down on your bottom lip, then come back to suckle on where he bit. Again you moan, a strange heat swirling down in the pit of your stomach._

_Pulling away, he pants, red lips shiny with spit. Dave’s eyes open and he stares back at you like he’s never seen you before. His hair looks like white gold in the moon’s light from the window. The room should’ve gotten cold by now, but your blood’s burning._

_He comes back to kiss you, hesitating just as his lips meets yours for a second time. You push forward, taking his tongue back between your lips, almost sighing at how perfect his heat feels inside of your mouth._

_You stumble onto your back, trying to rearrange your chain so it won’t dig into your skin. Dave follows you down, lips pressing and begging for more._

_The next time you both stop for breath, his hips are pressed firmly against yours. Your dick is hard, harder than you can remember. Bro always so rough, it always hurts, you’re half hard at the best of times. But this… Your arousal spurs you on, tugging on Dave shirt as a gesture to take it off._

_He does it quickly._

_Dave towers over you, bronze skin blurred because of your horrible eyesight. You use your fingertips to see instead, skimming over his abs, tracing the defined muscle he has on his stomach. You can’t recall him having this when he was 13. He sucks in a breath, abdominal muscles quivering under your touch. He’s panting sounds louder now, more pronounce._

_This time his mouth falls on your collar bone, sucking to the point where you’re squirming under him to move harder against your straining erection._

_His tongue licks the spot one more time before planting tiny chaste kisses upwards: one on the base of your throat, one on the collar, on your chin, finally whispering across your mouth._

_Your eyes half close, bucking your hips upwards, striving for more friction. His legs move to either side of your hips, kisses still spreading over your face._

_“Want to fuck me?” his voice is throaty and shaky; it’s the loveliest sound you’re ever heard._

_You blink, breathless. The words don’t make sense in that blink of an eye. “What?”_

_His voice is next to your ear now, “You’ve only ever been on bottom, right?” You slowly nod, abruptly moaning as his hand slides down your chest and into the waistband of your loose pants. “Has it ever felt good? ...Made you see God?” You bite down hard on your lip, his hand reaches your aching dick, thumb brushing over a thick vein._

_You shake your head, panting, toes curling. It’s never felt this good before. “Can you…fuck me too?” It doesn’t even sound like you. The voice’s all low and gasping._

_“Yes,_ yes _. I’ll do whatever you want. Anything.” His wrist pumps you harder, and he plays you like an instrument, a flicker here causing you to whimper, a squeeze there making you pant. He fingers the head, using the beads of precome to smear onto the rest of your dick._

_Almost silently, he tells you he’s going to take off your pants. You nod jerkily, lifting up your hips to help him shimmy them off, and soon they’re thrown to the side._

_He comes back to work you, perfect fingers curling around your cock. You groan his name, pushing into his hand until he suddenly stops._

_Tears are already dripping over your lower eyelids, a plea trapped inside of your throat because he’s just_ not moving _. Dave sits up, murmuring your name as he does so. His hand’s at his mouth, sliding two fingers inside. The distance is too far, you can’t see him clearly._

_“_ Dave _,” you cry out._

_“Hmmgh,” is the only reply you get, his fingers still in his mouth. He pulls them out, and even from where you’re at, the digits look glossy with saliva._

_Your eyes can’t see the details, but Dave pushes off his pants and underwear, those wet fingers inching backwards. His cock, such a pretty pink color and slightly bigger than yours, shines with precome at the tip. Your own dick weeps at the sight of him like this, fingering himself while his cock twitches._

_A gargled noise arises from his mouth and you realize that it’s your name. “Mmmh, John._ John _.” His eyes are on you even if you can’t see it exactly._

_You can’t do anything but stare and you think you do see God._

_His fingers take ahold of you and lead you into him. You throw your head back, biting into your hand because he’s so warm. You’re enveloped into a heat so tight and soothing, you’re not sure if you’re going to come. Dave coos something at you but all you hear comes in the form of blood rushing through your head. “Mmmh! D-Dav-ah!”_

_For the next couple of minutes (hours, days) Dave’s name is the only word that comes out of your mouth, everything else fluxes between moans and uncoherent pleas. His hips snap at the perfect pace, drawing out these ciphered cries from you._

_One of your hands rest lightly on his hip, the small still thinking part of your mind whispering not to grip him to hard. You know from experience how much that hurts._

_He’s still hovering on top, out of your reach to see him clearly. But for some reason, you can’t get the words to shape properly to tell Dave to come closer. “John…aghhh!”_

_“Dave…ahhh… Dave!” More. You want him closer. You see his mouth form a smile, breathtaking as the sunset. The shape of his hand grabs ahold of his bouncing dick, jerking it with every thrust of your hips._

_He bites his lip to keep his own sounds from escaping, it’s impressive how silent he can be compared to all the nonsense pouring out of you. Dave finally leans over you, bringing your mouths together in a starving lip-lock. From here, you can hear his sounds better, from the wanton grunts to the fevered moans._

_Your hands move to hold him, the sound of his heart guiding your body’s rhythmic motions. “Dave… Wanna come. Dav- so close, so close… Ahhmm…!” The words are barely more than breaths on his lip, but Dave must understand because he suddenly slows to a stop._

_Your fingers tighten against his back, mind blanking out if it’s hurting him. You keep thrusting upwards, your orgasm within your reach if only he keeps moving._

_“D-do you still want…me to…” His mouth’s against your neck, lips tenderly kissing on the underside of your jaw. His voice trails off almost timidly._

_It takes a moment for you to grasp what his question. Once your mind catches up to his words, you nod, still trembling from the pleasure. You could care less about who on top or on bottom, as long as Dave’s lips keep pinning tiny kisses to your body, you don’t care._

_He leans over you, arms supporting himself and either side of your head. Dave’s out of your sight range, his blurred image seemingly intensely gazing down at you like… “I see God every time I look at you…” he says it like a prayer. Maybe it’s the closest thing to one he’s ever said. You can’t even see his lips move and the words are just loud enough for you to hear, but the way he says it makes time slow down to a point where the very air you breathe pauses._

_You pull him back down and steal some of the air in his lung, mouth slowly becoming familiar with every inch of his._

_Yet he pulls back again, his swollen, red lips hovering above yours. Each hot puff of his breath is a thing of star-bursting magnificence. You pant back against him. “Sorry… Don’t have lube.” His cheeks are a bright as he brings up a hand to his mouth._

_Before you can ask him what lube is, he covers his fingers in more salvia and spits in his hand. To your amazement, that hand reaches in between your bodies, down to your ass. A shiver slips through your body as a wet finger circles and then enters you._

_A moans falls past your throat, trailed by a soft whimper from Dave. Your hands jump to grip his shoulders. You can see his teeth gnawing down on his bottom lip. “Good? Can I put in another?” he starts to say, but your fingernails cut half-moons into his skin._

_“You. I want you-” He leans back, supported more on his legs now. His other hand moves onto your dick, pumping you harder than before, hushed groans leaking from him. “D-Dave!”_

_Your eyes close when the sensation of his cock at your ass. He feels hot and sleek, and you gasp as he finally (finally) fills you. “Joh-ahhhh… You’re so warm,” he murmurs back besides your ear._

_The two of you stay still, the only sounds a mixture of your panting._

_You’re the first one to move, grinding your hips on his until Dave makes a noise. He bites down on the small part of your throat where the collar doesn’t cover. The hand on your dick slowly starts up again, taking the dripping precome and using it to make the movement easier. Your eyes are still closed, whimpering louder._

_His mouth traps the noise quickly and you remember that Bro is somewhere in the building._

_You urge Dave to move faster by pushing your hands into his hair, fingers lacing through the golden locks. Your senses are overwhelmed; his taste on your tongue, his moans in your ears, the sweat from his skin mingling with yours._

_He gargles something, hips jerking. Dave’s hold on you tightens. “L-look at me… Ple-ease,” you hear from above you. Your eyes open and immediately marvel at how he looks. His forehead touches yours, crimson eyes half open and focused on you._

_“I love you, John.” It’s not the first time he’s said that, but it is the first time you’ve accepted it. “I’ll do anything for you…”_

_You’ve heard it on the first night, when you were 13, awaking to him whispering to you, then as he handed you a dead bunny in a jar, then again as he showed you a picture of the park you used to play with Karkat. He’s said it mixed with apologies after he took the fingernails from your left hand, after he held you down for Bro to bind you with the collar. Once more, shyly, quietly, sighing it when you hugged him after Bro broke his leg._

_He’s said it so many times. You should fear how with each of Dave declarations has made you feel idyllic._

_Dave comes inside of you, and you know you should be scared, but there’s only bliss._

_For the first time, you acknowledge his love, staring into his eyes._

_You come a little after he pulls out, his hand tenderly finishing you off._

_You and Dave stay on the mattress, his face on your shoulder, breathing hard._ “I love you.” _You feel him mouth on your skin. You should tell him. You should tell him that you’ve come to love him too. But you don’t. For some reason, the words hang inside of your mouth, unsaid._

_With eyes still shut, you wrap your arms around him, pull him closer despite the mess on your lower regions and the thin layer of sweat covering each of you._

_If he notices a lack of verbal reply from you, he doesn’t mention it, instead snuggly deeper into your hold._

_“Sorry ‘bout comin’ first. I usually don’t that fast, but it was my first time on top,” Dave mumbles. You can practically his face beet red against your pale shoulder._

_You nuzzle your face on the top of his disheveled hair, whispering, “I don’t care about that.”_

_“…Really?”_

_“Nope.”_

_“Can I take a nap with ya? It’ll be short. Short as you when you were 13.” Snort._

_His eyelashes tickle you as they close._

_“I’ll be gone before mornin’. Don’t want Bro to know. I don’t wanna walk back to my room right now either. Sometimes Bro waits for me and starts randomly sparring. I don’t even know why the hell I need to know how to use a sword. Before I thought it was cool as fuck, but now, I really don’t_ get _it. I thought it was ironic, havin’ two white guys know how to kickass with a sword…”_

_You smile in spite of yourself, the low hum of Dave’s voice reminds you of past nights, where he would come in to talk and snuggle before you would fall asleep._

_“…then Bro said our Grandpa, Ambrose or some lame shit, learned in Japan back in World War II and made our dad learn. Bro was so fuckin’ drunk when he told me all this shit, I wouldn’t have known otherwise. Got as hammered as a nerdy college student at their first party with the cool kids…”_

_Your eyes close for the last time that night, falling asleep with a smile for the first time._

_It seems only a moment later, your consciousness awakes. You spy the morning light behind your eyelids._

_With some effort, they slothfully reopen a little. You’re facing the wall, Dave’s arms draped over you, heavy with lean muscle._

_A sliver of panic sets in as the sun’s morning heat covers your body. Your lips part, about to call out to Dave that he’s still here, when you see it._

_Extended high on the wall looms a shadow, broad chested._

_Your heartbeat stops in your chest and every ounce of air in the room dissipates until you almost gasp out loud, dying from lack of it. You want to die from it. You would rather die from that than living the next few minutes with what’ll happen._

_Your eyes shut, and like every other time, you want your Dad. You want Dad to tell you that tell that monsters aren’t real. The lie would ease the child in you, because the 16 year old you knows monsters do exist._

_You bit hard enough on the inside of your cheek to taste blood. You know you need to calm down before you start crying. It’s an automatic sense when you know he wants something. He likes it when you cry._

_All your thoughts are begging Dave to wake up and run. He’s seen Bro fuck you a couple times before. Bro’s made him see it. Each time, you know you’re tainted and sickening, but it’s those times especially, you feel the filth on your soul._

_The blood’s pooling inside your mouth now. Your back’s going to snap in two from how tense you are. The only thing that gives you comfort is the how Dave will care for you after it’s over._

_“Up.” To anyone else, the voice would almost be considered pleasant, a smooth, low sound, but to you, it equal to agonizing torment._

_You’re about to sit up, sob stuck in your throat, when Dave unexpectedly moves. You’re still looking at the wall, but a feather touch of Dave’s hand under the sheet_ (‘move slowly’ _) has you shifting upward._

_Bro looks back silently, face set in that ever disinterested setting. Nothing hints on his expression that he’s annoyed or furious._

_You don’t know if he’s watching you or Dave, his sunglasses blocking the little emotions you might’ve been able to read otherwise. His arms, thick with muscle, cross over his chest._

_He beckons you in front of him with a hand. The flinch involuntary happens as you jump to do so, regardless of being naked. Your chains raddle as you scurry over the bed and onto the floor._

_You knee before Bro, Dave’s eyes burning into your bare back._

_You watch with numb mind at how slowly Bro undoes his belt. You can see the outline of the large bulge under the denim. He calmly pulls himself out and you’re left staring at his erection. It’s the only thing you can see clearly. He’s bigger and thicker than you or Dave, with a darker patch of coarse, blonde hair above his dick. The head’s already dripping with precome, a bead of it swelled at the red tip._

_Behind you, Dave makes as much noise as empty cemetery._

_You don’t notice the wetness appears on your cheeks up until something splatters on your hand._

_He doesn’t tell you what to do, just keeps his head lowered in your direction to watch you. Without any hesitation, you take ahold of him and lead him into your mouth. The second you do so, he entwines a fist into your hair and forces you to take all of his cock._

_“_ GAHHG _!”_

_It’s sudden and at once, you start to choke. Your hands land on his thighs to pull away, but his grip only tightens on your hair and he thrusts deeper. “Mmm! Ghmmg!” Tears pour down your face, as you’re unable to breathe. Your nose rubs on his hair at every tug, dripping tears into it._

_No matter how much you pull away, Bro yanks you closer again, fucking your mouth harder. Shallow pants seep from his mouth. It fills the room like pollution._

_“_ Ghhmhmm _!”_

_You know better than to try biting. The one and only time you did, he slapped you across the face, making you see black for the next hour and locked you in the Red Room. You slept surrounded with the bloody, rotten dismembered torsos and heads as your only company._

_His cock hits the back of your throat, and the pain burns to deeply, you know you won’t be able to eat properly for the next couple of weeks. Snots mixes into your tears as you try begging him to stop, stop, s t o p_

_Please._

_“Bro… It’s- it’s hurtin’ hi-” Dave breathes hoarsely from distantly behind. He sounds small and helpless._

_You hear Bro answer far away, monotone despite the breathy quality, “You’ll get your turn, lil’ man.”_

_Dave’s jaw closes with a snap and then nothing._

_You stop struggling altogether, useless arms dropping next to your sides. You’re going to die like this. You can’t breathe when Bro’s yanking you over and over onto his dick, smothering you._

_The sound of his saliva slicked cock pumping in and out of your throat is the all your ears can comprehend. Your tears and snot mixture soak onto your upper lip, and you unintentionally take in the taste along with the bitter, salty taste of his precome._

_“Ggghhm…” you weakly cry around him, throat sweltering as the throbbing increases._

_His hand jerks your head up, staring at you. His cock slides half way out your mouth. With his other hand, he gently thumbs under your eye. The eye twitches under his scrutiny. His cock twitches in your mouth._

_The first time you saw him, he looked like an angel, cold and glorious all at the same time._

_He tilts his head, as if he could see you better that way. The freckles on his tanned face are fainter than Dave’s, like dim stars in a light-poisoned city’s sky._

_Now, you see horror drenched in an angelic glow._

_Bro’s blunt nail sinks a little into your skin, right below you eye, and the terror strikes you right in the chest, harder than a stomping foot. He release your face, and shoves his cock into your mouth, harder than before but you don’t try to move, praying to whatever’s out there, that he’ll finish soon._

_Whatever you prayed to answers in the form of an eruption of come into your mouth. His orgasm lasts long as you knew it would. He milks himself with your mouth, pouring so much come and so close to the back of your throat, you hurry to swallow some so not to drown in it._

_“Keep it in.” You recoil from the words, twisting in on yourself, and instantly cease from swallowing. Come overflows from your mouth, but you try to catch it with shuddering hands, hoping Bro meant not to waste it._

_He wipes the last drops on your cheek, smearing it with thick seed._

_You want this to be over._

_Bro wrenches you by your hair, twisting you until you’re facing Dave on the mattress._

_He’s still without his shades, the sheet covering him from the waist down. Even without your glasses, you know Dave shouldn’t look like this, dread latched on to every single one of his features. Dave’s beautiful, wide eyes shouldn’t be filled to the brim with tears. But he_ does _look like this and his brother’s spunk inside your mouth tastes like vomit._

_Bro heaves you towards Dave, almost landing in his lap. The come drips down your chin a little more as you start to quietly weep._

_“Kiss.”_

_That one single word rips a sob from you. By the time the sound’s half way out of your mouth, you know you’ll shatter for not promptly following Bro’s order._

_Dave’s mouth tumbles clumsily onto yours, breaking off the cry, and saving you from another scar on the back of your knee. He must taste, feel, the come on his lips, and still pries your mouth open with his tongue._

_The result ends with a disorder of thick, warm come oozing down your chins and dripping onto your naked chests. Dave takes in every one of your sobs, his hands stay limp in his lap as he caresses the inside of your mouth with slow fervor._

_This kiss can’t be real. It’s mocking the ones you two shared last time. This one stains revulsion in your being._

_Dave’s own tears combine with yours whenever his face brushes you. He quivers so much, the kissing makes your teeth clink together too much. You’re throat aches too._

_You pretend Bro’s gone away, that he’s isn’t standing a few feet to your left, watching you exchange his come with his little brother. If you block him out, you’re simply with Dave, unhurt and clean. Dave loves you so you’ll be ok. Dave loves you, so you’re not afraid. You have Dave._

_And then, it disappears._

_Dave’s warmth vanishes from under your lips, and when your eyes open, Bro’s hand grasps white-blonde hair. Dave’s expression falls into something so destroyed, the image stays etched into your eyes as the older Strider drags him away from you and to the door._

_Fluidly, Bro hurls Dave out the door, landing with a heart-wrenching crack against the floor. Bro turns away from him before Dave can even lift himself off the ground. He leaves the door open._

_“Dave!” His name spills gruffly over before you realize your lips moved. Then the vision on your right side all but goes out. The scream slashes through your throat the instant the brute of the blow lands against your face. You ball up on your side, crying louder and hold your face. Something on your face bleeds, your come soaked hands catching the blood._

_“Bro,” you hear Dave say, winded. “Bro!” It’s hushed, like trying to calm an instable beast._

_He turns to look at you on the bed, naked and coated in come and spit. Bro lazily unbuttons and takes off his white shirt, letting it slip past his fingers._

_“Das herz war zu kaput, es getan werden musste.” You hear the familiar, yet alien words appears through your dim senses. It’s the most you’ve ever heard him say._

_His shirt pools on the floor, looking like snow._

_A glance confirms what’s going to happen; he’s hard._

_On the other side of the door, Dave stands, chest heaving as his weeping start slowly and painfully. He falls to his knees, just beyond the threshold, and begs, “Bro…! Please!_ Please _!” He cries harder by the tremble his shoulders, sobs inaudible. But he makes no move to try to come into your room. You can’t blame him, either._

_You can’t move._

_“_ John _!” Dave sounds raspy and wretched, like he already knows what’s next. “Bro don’t… Please don’t break him…” You can imagine how this feels to him; like watching a plane fall out of the sky, right before his eyes._

_Bro smiles, softly, hideously, the side of his lips tilting upward. “He really likes you, kid.” Bro’s tone is the closest you’ve heard to anything (_ mocking _) as he comes closer and closer. The words don’t register to your ears because something else attracts your attention._

_The reflection in Bro’s shades mirrors a living dead boy._

You jerk out of bed, falling to the floor with a bellow. Half of your face is numb with the pain of Bro’s punch.

Dad storms into the room not even a second later, trying to bring you down from another panic attack, another nightmare (dream) of a memory. You scream into his chest until your voice gives out.

* * *

 

“Mr. Egbert, can you tell me who this is? What is his connection to you?” Lawyer Guy loudly asks and points to you where you sit, wrists and ankles shackled together.

John wrinkles his nose to push up his glasses, and nervously follows your lawyer’s finger. At last, his blue gaze settles on you and you see the same light that convinced you to bring him the drugs. It shines brighter than the biggest, widest eyes ever could. It’s more like the blaze of a crescent moon at midnight.

You want your expression to stay still and passive, but damn. Damn it all, he looks scared. He has the same expression like at your visit: tired and wary. But unlike that time, there’s a tenseness in his shoulders. If it wasn’t for that, you would appreciate the suit he’s wearing. It’s well-fitting on his thin built.

“T-that’s Dave Strider. He…took care of me when I was…taken.” He’s still watching you when he says it. You can’t (don’t want too) look away from him.

The lawyer nods, and lets out a small humming noise. “You say took care of you? What sort of things did he do?”

John visibly swallows thickly, finally looking away. You can see the bounce of his Adam’s apple as he does so. “He bathed me, took me out for walks on the roof… Um, he was the one who brought me food and water. Gave me a blanket when it was cold. He opened the window when it got really hot at night… Just stuff like that.”

“Was he the one who volunteered for this or did his brother make him?”

John makes frowns, like the question confused him. His eyes slip past the lawyer and off to the side, behind his grimacing blind prosecutor. You incline your head to see what’s captured his attention and you see him. Egbert’s dad face is a plain one, with a big nose and salt and pepper hair. You honestly can’t see the resemblance between the two, and wonder if it was Egbert’s old lady who gave him those baby blues.

“Mr. Egbert?” You hear Lawyer Guy ask, tone firm. You could fuckin’ rip out his tongue for talkin’ like that to John. When you look back at them, John’s clearing his throat.

“He asked to do it… He, Dave, asked Bro- I mean Dirk, if he could do it.”

“Do you know why?”

“I… Dave wanted a friend.”

There’s a sick twinkle in Lawyer Guy’s face, and you know the expression well enough to get that Egbert just gave him something to work with. The frown on your face deepens. So much for your _fuck it_ face. “What did you do about this aim for friendship?”

John’s nervous eyes swing back to his dad a moment before meeting Lawyer Guy’s. “I wasn’t sure at first. I thought he was really weird and- and the things he would do…” The twinkle in LG’s eyes fades a little and you smirk. “But,” The smirk dips as that magic word as you see it reignites something in the lawyer. John face pauses in an express of deep thought. “B- Dirk was hard on him… Really hard.”

You could hear a pin drop in the courthouse. You gulp down the wad of spit and your heart clutches in your heart.

“What would he do?”

John’s hands clutches his arms tightly enough to leave bruises on them. You regret you won’t be there to lick them.

His next words are soft but they leave echoes imprinted on the walls as the microphone radiates them for everyone’s big ears. “Bro raped him. He beat Dave a lot. But even then, he loved him a lot too.”

LG falls silent for a moment, most likely to let the words sink in to the jury. The judge, some black lady with glasses, narrows her eyes John, full lips set in a line.

You close your eyes, and bring your hands up to cover your eyes. The rustle the chains make sound are bursts of metal and you know that you broke the quiet and that tons of eyes must be looking at you. Your middle finger aches to shoot up but you shut your eyes more.

Egbert’s not allowed to lie here. He had to say- What the truth? Wasn’t what Bro did to you lessons? Everything was a lesson, everything not without a meaning to spend days on ‘cause Bro never understood the meaning of fuckin’ talkin’. Was that the truth?

“Who loved who a lot, John,” LG asks, voice the same volume.

You imagine John licking his lips again, ‘cause he’s too nervous to talk about something like this. He had troubling handling the dirty shit, be it words or the eyeballs of bird you gave him, he was too damn gentle. “Dave loved Dirk.” His trembling voice makes you relax despite the actual words.

Your hands brush through your short hair, chains rattling, and look up at John. You can tell they’ve made a point of telling him beforehand not to look at you too much. He’s hardly glancing your way. “Did you ever see any of this abuse?”

“Yes.”

“Could you give us a run down on what happen one of these times?”

Egbert stiffens, eyes watery. “I think it was the first year, when I was like 13, when Dave took me out for a walk, and Dirk came up the stairs and they started to spar.” His voice cracks on the last word, causing the mic to split. He rubs his throat, you can just barely see the quiver in them. “Spar.” He looks off to the distance, seeing the memory again. You know because it happen to you a lot too. “Dirk won. And he dragged Dave close to the ledge and-and,” John takes a small intake of breath, “threw him over.”

The room’s so quiet, a soft gasping sound explodes in the back.

You remember that day. Your eyes could barely see Bro move and every time you jabbed your sword at him, your weapon couldn’t even hit his afterimage. You fucked up and you kept fucking up. Bro said you needed to learn to do better because you were weak. At least, that’s what you translated from his gestures. If Bro won, you prepared yourself for breaking something.

Bro always won. He always won.

Wondering how the memory looks in John’s eyes, the setting around him fades and fades until you’re only focused on him but he doesn’t look 17 anymore, and _a tearstained (practically permanent these first months) and delicately thin John Egbert stares at you with big blue eyes._   

_You make shameful whimpering noises at the back of your throat as your body already starts steeling itself for anything and everything. A part of you is grateful that your new shades won’t get broken when you just got ‘em. You think they maybe have fallen onto the ground after Bro slapped you across the jaw with his elbow._

_You didn’t even last 20 minutes._

_“B-bro,” you bit down hard enough on your tongue to feel the thick rush of blood fill your mouth. Fuck your stutter. Fuck, why couldn’t you move fast enough? There’s a feeling of blue eyes practically cutting into the back of your skull harder than any needle or knife could._

_Not in front of John, you wanted to say. But begging ain’t gonna do anything. Striders deal and move on._

_Of course Bro either ignores you or doesn’t hear. The latter being bullshit. Bro always hears. He always sees._

_He shakes you hard, fingers grip your hair as he pulls you silently pulls you closer and closer towards the edge of the roof. Your brain instantly clicks what he’s going to do and your body continues to tighten, tighten, tighten…_

_His hold releases only to fist the front of your white shirt. Bro casually picks you up and over the edge, and in the background, you can see John covering his mouth and nose in horror, more tears rushing down, and you can’t help to feel a combination of awe and humiliation._

_Then without warning (no words, there are never words), he lets you fall._

“What happened to Dave when he fell, John? The hotel building had 5 floors, more than enough to kill him.”

You almost jerk in your seat as 17 year old John focuses back into view, and huskily replies, “There were trash bags, lots and lots of trash bags and leaves, from when Dave would rake around the building, and that’s where he fell.” Your eyes stare at every words that leaves his bow shaped mouth. “He dislocated his shoulder and broke his ankle.”

Lawyer Guy would smirk if he could, you figure, eyeing him with a neutral face. Piece of shit. He’s about to say something else when John whispers, eyes lost, “And the next day, I heard B- Dirk rape him. It was so loud, like it was just outside my door. But Dave was trying to be quiet…for me-”

“Mr. Egbert, please retrain from talking out of turn,” the judge’s voice flings out like a whip. John flinches at the words and jerkily nods, gaze downward.

Lawyer Guy clears his throat (you’ve dreamt about ripping it out) and puts his hands behind his back. “No further questioning.” He turns towards you, but not after glancing at the jury. There’re tears being held back in one old brown man’s coffee eyes. Your lawyer could whip out his dick right now and jerk himself off, and you bet that his damn orgasm wouldn’t feel any better than what he felt right at this moment.

He side eyes John’s lawyer, murmuring, “Your witness.”

 Your think her name’s Latula or some shit. She’s got frizzy blonde hair and thin lips that almost disappear whenever she frowns. Her red horn-rimmed glasses seem too fashionable for a blind chick.

In her hands is a cherry wooden walking stick. At hearing LG, she stands straight and the _tap tap_ of the stick bounces off the floor. She straightens her suit jacket as she walks.

A table is rolled out covered in bagged things you can’t make out.

“Mr. Egbert,” her voice sounds like it nails on a chalkboard and feels like it too. “You spoke about young Mr. Strider ‘taking you out for walks,’ explain this.”

John looks even more nervous, which you don’t get. Isn’t his lawyer supposed to be on his side? Why does he look so scared?

“He would come get me from my room and take me up to the roof for about an hour every other day. Nothing much to it,” his tone is defensive, like he’s trying to silently tell her to back off whatever she’s up too.

She notices it too, a tick in her jaw popping up. “Would he restrain you, Mr. Egbert?” Your heart skips a beat.

John’s chewing on his cheek. “…Yes.”

“How?”

He swallows loud enough that the mic catches it and replays it again to the crowd. “Dirk had me wear a collar, and whenever Dave came for me, he would put the leash on.” He refusing to look at you, and you know it isn’t because whatever his people told him, it’s because he’ll start crying if he stares at you too long.

You look away, at your hands, shackled on top of the table. You know because that’s how you feel.

“A collar. Like this?” There’s that annoying tapping sound and a rustle of plastic, but you refuses to look up until John makes a sudden choking noise. Your entire body is tense and as your eyes leap up, the air seizes in your lungs.

Latula hold up a thick leather collar with both hands, her cane left leaning against the stand where John sits. In her right hand, wrapped around and around her palm lays something else. He’s staring at it in horror, and his hand reaches up to cover his mouth. He turns his head away slightly and by the roll of his shoulders, he’s swallowing back vomit. “What am I holding up, John?”

His watery eyes inch back to it, mouth still covered for a second until he brings it back down. “My collar.”

 She nods, and takes two short steps where the jury is and expertly walks up and down their seats, showing off the collar. You don’t know how she’s supposed to be blind, she looks like she can walk better than you could after Bro fucked you that one time on the forest floor when you were 10.

His lawyer unwinds the thing in her hand and it falls all the way onto the floor, pooling up there for all the see until she’s left holding up a brass handle. “What am I holding now, Mr. Egbert?”

“My…leash.”

“Mr. Egbert, you said Dave Strider wanted a friend. Would you ‘walk’ your friends, Mr. Egbert?”

John’s forcing himself not to sob now. “No…”

“Would you say you are his friend, Mr. Egbert?”

“I- I wanted to- to be, I was lonely-”

The women drops off the leash and collar on the table with a clatter. She marches up John and snatches her cane away before grabbing some paper off her desk. “Mr. Egbert, would you also force your friends to bathe in a tub full of blood?” John recoils and his black brows draw together in confusion, but at his third blink, he turns white as snow.

Looks like he forgot about that time, and honestly, you did too.

Bro had just killed this bulky black kid, after two days of chopping bits off, and he let you have the body. There was still so much blood left in the guy, you thought you could use the damn stuff somehow.

John was so impressed with how you could move this guy all by yourself, he couldn’t even move when you helped him into the bath. 

“Young Mr. Strider also had you spit into a jar almost every day for, I quote, “to help him jerk off.”” Her hands race across the paper in her hands, face never leaving the direction where John sits.

Another thing you forgot, and apparently by his face, so did he.

“I- I-” he stammers, fear blooms on his expression more.

“He came in at night to watch you sleep every night. He look pictures of you sleeping and bathing.” Her arm shoots out, slowly revolving the three Polaroid pictures of a sleeping John balled up in a thin sheet. Peeking behind that one is John sitting naked in the tub.

She slams them back behind the rest of the papers. “Mr. Strider stuffed the hair of dead people into your bed, without you _knowing_ for the _first year_. He _ripped_ off your _finger nails_ and hung them on his ceiling, Mr. Egbert!

So, answer me this; to your knowledge, did Dirk Strider ever ask his younger brother to do any of these things?”

John’s mouth opens and closes. It finally snaps shut with a booming click of his teeth. His eyes race to where you know his dad is sitting and then, just as quickly, back to his bitch of a lawyer. You would gouge out her useless eyes and give them to him as a present, and run your fingers through his hair and try to make him feel better.

“N- _no_ …b-but-”

“Answer the question clearly, Mr. Egbert.” She returns back to her table, grabbing a file and moving to pass it to some dick in uniform. The ugly scar over his eye wrinkles as he shuffles the papers to the judge. It’s a copy of John’s first questions, worded letters detailing what happened in John’s own voice probably soon after he left you.

John cut off a low cry, eyes shutting tight and shakily moving his head left and then right. He hugs himself tightly, hands enfolding around his upper arms.

John shouldn’t look like this. Bro was one thing, but this **_bitch_**? She shouldn’t even be allowed to lick the ground he walks on.

_“Mr. Egbert.”_

“No!” John snaps, eyes a sapphire flame. “Dirk never asked him to do any of that!”

“So, it was all him doing this? His own ideas that he went ahead and did to you?”

“Yes! Wait, I- he did and Dirk never told him too, but-”

Latula slams her hands on her table, hissing, “ _Yes or no_ , John.”

You realize why John looked so scared.

His heavy gaze floats to you, sadly and heart wrenching. “Yes,” it’s soft.

It was for you.

The deliberation takes 6 hours, and when you turn from your monitored break and stand along with about a hundred others, one of the jurors, the man with brown eyes, hands the scarred security guard a paper.

“Dave Strider, you’ve pleaded guilty on 13 cases of murder in the second degree by the State of Texas, 21 cases of torture, and 1 case of kidnapping of a minor…and by this trial of your peers, you’ve been sentenced 50 years in the Derse Mental Hospital for the Criminally Insane, with the possibility of parole in ten years.”

Someone sobs, and it leads to a detonation inside the room. You hear slurs about your German heritage and names, and cries about redemption ‘n shit, but everything in your sight freezes. The judge’s mallet pauses before it strikes the wood, the guards are stopped mid-step, the specs of spit fly out of one fuming man’s mouth, they’re visible right in front of his lips, and there, next to his dad…

There John stares back at you, wet cheeked and vivid eyes boring into you. He’s giving you a broken, ethereal smile.

He was the one who sobbed.

The thought causes your own cry to come out and you grin back at him. You fuckin’ love him. You love him. Hell, you’ll use a clichéd word and breath, “I adore you,” into the noiseless room.

God’s ( _johnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohn’s_ ) smile is the only salvation you’ll need.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About half way writing this chapter, I realized that John and Dave have become (or already were???) codependent. Like damn, sure it was planned from the get go that Dave had this obsession with John and that John has Stockholm Syndrome to deal with all the shit that’s happened to him, but it’s just now hit me that their relationship really is fucked up.
> 
> Huh. I’m writing this and I’ve surprised myself.
> 
> Also to the writers who write nothing but smut, you guys are amazing. Just geniuses. This stuff is hard to write. Did that smut scene between John and Dave seem forced to you guys? Comments about this needed to pounder over, please. 
> 
> Next chapter will be the last one! Idk how long it’ll be, not as long as this one, for sure.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Is everyone in character so far??? Considering everything? Like, if anyone has anything to comment, at least tell me this. 
> 
> I know i shouldnt be writing another multific, but i couldnt help it. I've had this idea for a while and I'm plenty excited to share it. It shouldn't go past 3-4 chapters but we'll see. 
> 
> This is gonna be pretty dark, just look at the tags, so consider that.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcomed! Thanks!


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